


Rules Regarding Cats

by Sev Dragomire (seventhe)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Smut, M/M, their cats - Freeform, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/Sev%20Dragomire
Summary: “I’m taking the last beer,” Spike tells him, but his tone of voice says something entirely different.Xander licks his lips and watches Spike’s sharp eyes follow the movement. “You’ve probably earned it,” he says, and is surprised when Spike starts chuckling, shaking his head at Xander like he can’t even believe it before leaving the bedroom.
Relationships: Xander Harris/Spike
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	Rules Regarding Cats

**Author's Note:**

> yes, this is That Fic. This is the fanfic that Nicky Brendon read live on New Year's Eve. Yes, you should also go follow him on Facebook and be his friend and support him financially so you can see him live-read the end of this. yes, I'm a real author who writes things.

Xander’s in the bedroom, staring down at the pile of laundry he’s dumped over the bed and pretending he’s going to fold any of it. It’s mostly boxers and socks. Who folds boxers and socks? They go in the same drawer, even: folding them is a waste of time. He rummages around the still-warm pile to see what else he’s ignoring. There are a couple of his t-shirts that have made it in - he spots his Venom hoodie too - and, strangely, one of Spike’s henleys. They have rules about the laundry, Xander thinks. This is against all of those rules. 

“Oi!” Spike yells from the living room. “I need a beer!”

“You have legs!” Xander shoots back, wondering whether he wants to take Spike’s henley and put it in the toilet as punishment, or if he’s just going to put it in with his own clothes and wear it instead. Either option will get Spike all pissed off, and that’s the real goal.

“I absolutely can’t move right now,” Spike hollers back. “Come get me a beer!”

“You’d better not be talking to me.” Xander huffs and decides to stuff the henley under the bed instead. It’s still sticky from the incident with the lightbulb and the two-liter. “Did we finally get that hot live-in maid you’ve been wanting?”

“Sod off,” Spike calls. “I will even say please, just this once, because I am absolutely not moving. Pretty please. With a cherry on top. Get me a fucking beer.”

“No quoting Pulp Fiction,” Xander yells back, grinning. “Movies I had to show you are off-limits.”

“I cannot express the immensity of the fucks I do not give,” Spike replies quite calmly. “I am out of beer and cannot move, and I am imploring you to have mercy on my soul.”

Xander’s curious enough at this point to leave the laundry where it is. “Your soul needs mercy like it needs another three-inch wiener, Spike.”

“You’ve got no complaints.” Spike leers up at Xander as he enters the living room. He’s sprawled out over the recliner they’d snagged out of a dumpster last weekend, arms stretched over his head - Xander’s eye catches on his biceps, briefly - and their least ragged blanket over his legs. There are two cats curled up in his lap, the brown one and the cream one tangled up around each other. 

Spike gestures. “See? Can’t move.”

“You’re serious,” Xander says, not a question. 

Spike raises an eyebrow, a smirk hovering around his mouth. “Would you move them?”

“They’re cats,” Xander points out. “They come back.”

“Look into their faces and tell me you would risk disturbing their slumber.” Spike trails a finger down the cream one’s back, his eyes challenging Xander like this is some kind of dare. “It’s a bloody law of nature or something, right? Let sleeping cats lie.”

“Big bad vampire,” Xander tells him, although admittedly it is pretty cute. What’s even cuter is Spike in a recliner under a blanket with cats cuddling in his lap. Xander figures he can bring this up the next time Spike tries to call him a nerd. “I’m still not getting you a beer.”

“I am trapped,” Spike intones dramatically. He’s grinning widely at Xander now, and adds on in that deep tone of voice that always makes Xander a little bit hot, “I thought we were friends now.”

“What you are is lazy,” Xander says, making his way over to the recliner. “And friends don’t do this,” he murmurs, as he bends down to bite at Spike’s lower lip. The noise Spike makes in surprise is incredibly rewarding, as is the way Spike immediately claims his mouth with vigor, licking against Xander’s teeth in one hot swipe before he pulls away.

“I’ve had friends that do.” Spike’s eyes are hooded now, and he’s biting his lip, trying to entice Xander to lean in again. 

Instead, Xander pops right back up with a cheery smile and heads to the kitchen. “Man, a beer sounds good right about now.”

Spike groans, and drawls, “I’m going to kick your arse.”

“No you’re not.” Xander twists the top off of a bottle and comes to lean against the wall by the kitchen, taking a long swig right in front of Spike, making sure to exaggerate how refreshing it is. “You’re in cat jail.”

“Consider it an I-O-U,” Spike says with a broad smirk. “I’ll take it out of you later.”

“Whatever you say, mister cat’s-got-me-down.” Xander takes another long drink. “Alexa, play Pussy Control.”

As if this apartment has anything like that. It makes Spike growl, though, but Xander watches as his eyes glance at the cats briefly before flashing back up. No, there’s no way Spike’s moving now. His point has been made and Spike is a stubborn fuck who will run with this.

“Any way I can bargain with you?” Spike tries to leverage his best smoldering look, the smile teasing around his lips in the way that always makes Xander want to go over there and suck it off — it doesn’t really work when he’s cozied up in a blanket and two cats.

But Xander takes the time to let his gaze trail down Spike suggestively — that is, until he comes to the cats, which are really quite adorable. The brown one’s got its face tucked under a paw, and that’s actually really cute. He ends up smiling. Broadly.

“Anything you could offer that would work,” Xander tells Spike quite honestly, “would end up moving the cats anyway.”

“Are you actually cockblocking me,” Spike says down to the cats, although his finger comes to rub against the cream one’s cheek. “You had better appreciate the things I do for you.”

“Cat-blocking,” Xander suggests, and Spike shoots him this horrifically insulted look. He knows Spike’s more offended by the word itself, and thus decides to remember it for future use. Preferably around Buffy.

“Anyway, I was doing laundry,” he says, blithe and carefree. “Thanks for the beer idea.” 

He heads back into the bedroom, chalking this one up as a win in the Xander column. Either Spike will give in, move the cats, and follow him to the bed - in which case he wins with sex - or he’ll hunker down sulkily into the chair, in which case he wins because he can make fun of Spike about it for weeks. Usually things in this apartment end in a draw; Xander’s pretty pleased to have the advantage.

A sock turns out to be Spike’s, and Xander shoves it under the bed as well, to join the henley in what has to be a moderately-sticky existence. He’s really just rearranging the rest of it. _Adulthood!_

He hears soft padding behind him, and then the soft whump as grey-stripes and one of the brown tabbies jump up onto the bed. He and Spike really need to get around to names. They’d argued over each other’s suggestions the whole way through a six-pack, and while it had ended in some fantastic angry handjobs, Xander finds he’s really getting tired of referring to all the cats by their color.

“Go ahead,” he says, as the tabby pads over to insinuate its way into the pile of socks and boxers in that way cats do, kneading for a while until turning into a circle and vanishing amongst the warm laundry. “Why not.”

The grey-striped one sniffs around for a bit, letting Xander offer his fingers for a brief scratch, and then distributes itself right over top of its - sister? - and gives one of those heavy cat sighs before, seemingly, going to sleep immediately.

“Right.” Xander rolls his eye. He can’t really fold the laundry now, can he? That’s a pretty cute pile of paws right there. Spike set the rule; he’s just, you know, following it. It isn’t that he’s tired of laundry or anything. He stands up, deliberates actually getting Spike a beer, and decides against it.

There’s another soft step behind him, and Xander says, “Go ahead, find your - sisters? How do you gender a cat? Do cats have gender? Maybe we should have taken you to a doctor.”

“Didn’t think you’d need to be reminded what’s in my pants,” Spike murmurs into the back of Xander’s neck. He can feel Spike’s breath, warm and wet, right up against his shoulder. It makes him shiver. 

“I’m remembering it quite fondly right now,” Xander tells him, trying to make it not as breathy as it wants to be.

Spike presses up behind him, and his fingers trail over Xander’s chest. How can he suddenly be so sensitive, so responsive, when a literal minute ago he was giggling over having shoved Spike’s socks under the bed? It doesn’t matter; Spike’s fingers trail over his right nipple and he makes this little gasp he hadn’t intended on making, ever, in his entire life.

He feels Spike hook his chin over Xander’s shoulder. Is Spike up on his toes? It should be funny, but somehow the heat of Spike’s breath in his ear, the way he can feel Spike hard against his ass — it isn’t funny so much as it is intense and really, really fucking hot.

“Oh look,” Xander says, and his voice is only wobbling a little bit. “We can’t use the bed, there’s cats on it.”

“Hmm,” Spike hums into his ear, and then his left hand has come up to brush over Xander’s left nipple as his right hand starts to dip - very slowly - below the hem of his jeans. “Don’t think we’ll need the bed, luv, I’m fine right here.”

Xander shivers - but only a bit - as Spike’s fingertips drag along the skin of his lower belly, right above the line of his boxers. It’s such a delicate touch; things between them are often hard, hot, heated, but this is so cautious, so deliberate, that Xander feels like his one remaining eye is rolling back into his head. 

“Is this because I drank that beer in front of you?” Xander asks, trying to stay somewhere near nonchalant. He’s maybe in the next zip code over. “Cause it’s right there, I haven’t finished it yet.”

Spike makes some sort of sound, a low growl that’s all vampirey, and Xander figures that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, but, well, he’s a weak man. “Do you want me to drink the beer,” Spike asks him, voice low and rough like gravel, “or should I, maybe, continue?”

Xander already won once, tonight. He’s unlikely to win a second time. “I mean, it’s up to you,” he offers, his voice wavering as Spike’s fingertips suddenly press hard into his skin. The noise he makes isn’t really a moan, but it’s maybe something like a moan. “Just offering.”

“What’s on offer,” Spike hisses into his ear. He does this, a lot — Xander knows why, knows what moment Spike’s reliving in his head. “Other than the beer, that is.”

Xander’s throat is dry - despite the beer - so he decides, instead of words, to bring his hand up to grab Spike’s and shove it down inside his boxers. That’s consent. Enthusiastic. He wants to look back over his shoulder, to catch Spike’s eye, to maybe catch Spike’s mouth with his own, but then Spike’s fingers continue their journey down; Spike rests his entire palm over the crease between groin and hip, so close to where Xander really wants, and he knows he’s breathing hard.

Fuck, the things they do to each other.

“That,” Xander says as Spike’s fingers twitch against his skin; “that, that’s entirely on offer.”

“Good,” Spike purrs.

Those fingers flicker gently across his skin as they move from his hip to gently trail up his half-hard cock. Xander has no idea why any of this is so hot, but he tips his head backwards until it rests against Spike’s and pants. At this point there’s nothing to lose by letting Spike know how much Xander wants him, and a lot of things to possibly gain. It’s like the lottery, but for dicks. Wheel of Fortune. What about Jeopardy, how would that translate into a sex life? Answer in the form of a question?

But Spike’s palm and fingers are suddenly wrapped around Xander’s dick — hot, just holding, snug and tight and Xander’s leaking, really; he can feel each little pulse dripping down his length.

“Orgasm for 400, Alex,” Xander says, only belatedly realizing that it was out loud.

“You are so fucking weird.” Spike clutches him closer, making sure Xander can’t move more than a wiggle, his mouth sucking at Xander’s neck while his fist starts to work. The movement is tight and slow, picking up every drip of precome until his hips are thrusting into a slick grip. “I have no idea what goes on in that strange brain of yours.”

Xander tries to stay slow, to keep his hips moving like a question, rather than a demand. “Mostly filth,” he tells Spike, “but with Marvel references.” Spike’s arm moves lower, so that Xander’s caught round the waist, and he realizes why when he can feel Spike’s hips moving against his clothed ass and thighs, a grinding motion that’s almost as hot as the feeling of tight wet fingers around him.

“Stop talking,” Spike mutters into the meat of his shoulder, “any time.” Xander can feel him rolling his eyes, but he can also feel the roll of Spike’s hips against him, and the way his grip is tightening, adding a twist at the end that makes Xander want to shout. 

“Shouldn’t do this,” Xander manages to get out, waving at the sleeping cats, “in front of the children.” He wraps one arm over Spike’s, lacing their fingers together, and then reaches the other one behind him, to tug at Spike’s hair. He can feel the sound Spike makes in response, rather than hearing it, a low vibrating growl deep in the back of his throat. The sound of it makes his cock pulse, more slick liquid for Spike’s unrelenting hand to pick up.

“You’re trying desperately hard to not get laid,” Spike tells him, his voice low and dry, wringing his wrist in a way that pulls another desperate noise out of Xander’s throat. 

“I can’t help it,” Xander pants. “Mouth just runs, you know that.”

In response Spike’s fingers on his hip - and Xander’s, entwined with Spike’s - tighten their grip and Spike grinds up against his ass, ruthlessly hard, letting his thrusting control the movement of Xander’s cock into those tight, slick fingers, and shit he’s close, already, embarrassingly close. 

For all that they’ve done, really, and the ways they’ve come together, there’s something intentional and focused about this time that has Xander’s nerves singing along his skin. The way Spike’s pressed against him - holding him - the way they haven’t even bothered to take clothes off — haven’t even kissed: it’s all heated up in his bones, tingling deep in his groin and in his fingers and in the way his mouth is open, breathing hard, the way he wants to turn and kiss Spike like a bruise, but can’t and won’t.

“Spike,” he manages to breathe, warning and accolade all in one, and he feels Spike sucking again at the join of his neck and shoulder - no teeth, never teeth, but the feeling of that rough spark of pain is like extra wood on a fire, extra bacon on the pizza - what is he thinking - and Spike simply pulls Xander tight against him and jacks at his cock, sucking at that tender point where tendon meets joint, and the feel of Spike licking at his skin is enough to send Xander tumbling over. White-hot and slick and stars at the backs of his eyes, his hips pulse as he does, and Spike swears into his skin and holds on, dragging the last shuddering, shattering pieces of it out of Xander as if determined to not miss a drop.

“Fuck,” Xander says, because he can’t think of any other words. He knows he has a vocabulary, somewhere, but it seems to have escaped him at the moment. He’s warm with it, skin bursting with sensation.

Spike’s laughing, dark but fond, into the back of Xander’s neck, as he moves to wipe his hand on the inside of Xander’s boxers - that would be gross, but Xander doesn’t have the brain cells to care at the moment - before pulling it out and wrapping it low around Xander’s belly. His movements against Xander’s cheeks have become more frantic, and it turns out that after a particularly mind-blowing orgasm Xander really, really wants to see the same thing from his partner, so he finally turns around to face Spike — and then drops down to his knees.

“Oh, shite,” Spike says - out loud, like real words - and his hands twitch a bit in the air as Xander undoes the button on his stupid charcoal skinny jeans, which yes they make his ass look fantastic but they also make Xander feel really stupid so he loves and loathes them in equal measure. Careful gestures - as Spike fists his hands over and over - end up with those stupid jeans caught on Spike’s thighs, along with the black silk boxer briefs he always wears, and Xander’s hand around Spike’s dick as he listens for the breath Spike doesn’t need to catch in his throat.

Xander looks up at Spike; Spike’s looking down at him, pupils blown wide, panting a bit, and his cock twitches in Xander’s hand. “Do you want that beer?” Xander offers, soft and poignant, and it takes a long stretch of seconds for Spike to realize what he said —

“You fucking arsehole,” Spike says down at him, and it’s laced with the kind of want and fondness Xander wasn’t sure he’d ever hear. “I swear I’m going to…”

It trails off as Xander starts licking. He isn’t necessarily sure about his charms, or his sense of humor, but he’s pretty confident in the things his tongue can do. Above him, Spike stiffens, the kind of thing he does when Xander catches him off-guard. Oh, good. This will be fun.

He reaches up to grab at Spike’s hands, and then guides them to his hips, clutched in his own. Other times he’d let Spike wrap them in his hair, or round his jaw, but Xander right now just wants to hear Spike’s reaction as straightforwardly as he can get it. As he does that, he lets his mouth sink, full and hot before he pulls back. Spike makes this _noise,_ a bit whiny in the back of his throat, and Xander thrills to hear it.

It really doesn’t take a long time at all - hands clasped in each other’s, held at Spike’s hips, Xander’s mouth working - until there’s a flood of heat, salt, and an extended syllable groan leaving Spike’s mouth. Xander swallows, and eventually pulls off; he’s warmed through, satisfied on multiple levels, tingling with lovely sensation as Spike slumps backwards a bit, rubs his hands over his face, sighs.

“That worked out well,” Xander says, letting a bit of happiness show in his voice. Their apartment may be confusing, and complicated, same as most of their existence right now, but orgasms are not only straightforward but _really good_ and Xander can appreciate that. “Aren’t you glad you moved?”

Spike’s knobby fingers reach down to Xander’s shoulders, pull him upright, and Spike lays one on him: simple, deep, hungry, his mouth working Xander’s open until Xander starts to wonder whether they’re actually done for the evening. He’s a little breathless as Spike pulls away, looking up at him with eyes that have to be fond and just aren’t saying so.

“I’m taking the last beer,” Spike tells him, but his tone of voice says something entirely different.

Xander licks his lips and watches Spike’s sharp eyes follow the movement. “You’ve probably earned it,” he says, and is surprised when Spike starts chuckling, shaking his head at Xander like he can’t even believe it before leaving the bedroom.

Xander glances down. There are still two cats in the pile of his own underwear, now twined around each other like two liquids mixing, and it makes something warm in his chest twitch just a bit as he says, “Huh. Hope you weren’t watching.” 


End file.
